


A Study in Family

by DonnesCafe



Series: Holy Branches 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Parentlock, Sherlock Series 1 ASiP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock found kid!John at a crime scene and brought him home. Mycroft is not pleased. Mrs. Hudson is. Tolstoy said "happy families are all alike," but I don't think so. How Sherlock, John, and the ensemble gradually form a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s nice,” said John. 

Sherlock looked around the cluttered flat. Piles of books and papers on every surface. Boxes of files on the floor. His dressing gown on the sofa. Damn, he hadn’t put the eyes back in the fridge when he left this morning. There was a … smell. If this seemed nice to the boy, Sherlock wondered exactly where he had been living. 

He picked a pile of correspondence off a chair and stabbed it to the mantel with a knife. John came closer to the fireplace. He put out a hand to the skull. The skull where the cocaine was hidden. 

“Why do you have a skull?” 

“Just a friend. Well, I say friend.” Sherlock put a hand on the boy’s arm to keep him from reaching for the skull. 

John jumped back and moved behind the armchair, his eyes wary. His cheeks flamed red. He looked like he might run at any second, eyes shifting from Sherlock to the door. 

Oh, thought Sherlock. Oh. He backed up. Careful. 

“John, I’m not…. That’s not why….” He ran his hands through his hair. “Bloody hell. Sorry, sorry….” He held up his hands, looking at the boy as one might look at a skittish animal. 

“I’m not going to ask you to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me, but I won't touch you. I didn’t think.” 

John still looked wary. “Why did you then?” Sherlock sighed. He had always hated when people lied to him when he was that age, withheld information supposedly for his own good. Sherlock took the skull from the mantel, turned it over, and took out the coke. 

“Cocaine,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see it. I was going to flush it. I won’t get high as long as you’re here.” He hoped that was a promise he could keep. “You can flush it.” 

John came up to him, took the small, plastic bag he was holding out. “Harry drank. Used weed, angel dust. Rufus used crack, crystal, zero.” 

“Rufus was the pimp?” 

John nodded. “Why did you kill him?” asked Sherlock. 

John looked at the floor. “He tried to…. He tried….” He stopped and took a long, shaky breath. “Harry thought he’d stop with her. He gave us a place to live.” Sherlock thought about the dirty mattresses in that abandoned building. Felt his skin crawl. “But he was high, and he tried… Harry tried to pull him off. He started h…hurting her.” The boy looked up. No tears. Face as white as paper. “I knew he carried a knife in his belt. I tried….” His voice trailed off. 

“I will never use while you’re staying here,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice level. Thinking that it was a shame Rufus was dead so that he couldn’t kill him again. “And I’m not a pedophile.” 

“Why did you bring me here, then?” 

That was a very good question. He wasn’t sure he had a clear answer. 

“You seemed to need a place to stay. I’ve been on the streets myself. I was….,” Sherlock stopped. It seemed important not to lie to John, so he hoped the past-tense was true. “I was an addict. I was on the street for a while. Not a good place to be. You’re too young for it. I have room. You can stay here until you decide what you want to do.” It wasn’t a lie to leave unspoken what he could barely express. That the boy hadn’t lied or snivelled or made excuses. He had tried to save his sister. He had been willing to turn himself in. He was honest and brave. And alone. He needed someone. Sherlock was useless to almost everyone, including himself. Perhaps he could be of some use to this boy. 

“You won’t tell the police what I did?” 

“No. Self-defense. Justifiable homicide. I would have done the same. But once they identify your sister, they’ll find you here. We’ll have to come up with a plausible story.” 

John’s shoulder drooped. “Maybe I should just tell the truth.” 

Sherlock thought about this slight boy, about the shite life he’d had already. Envisioned him caught up in the web of foster care and therapy and possible detention. No. 

“We’ll talk about it in the morning. It’s late. You can sleep in my room.” The boy flushed, looking wary again. 

“I don’t sleep much. I can sleep on the sofa. There’s a room upstairs. I’ll see Mrs. Hudson in the morning about clearing it out for you.” He pointed toward the bedroom door. “Go on. It locks from the inside. Lock it.” 

John nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you’ve been nice to me. It’s just…,” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you should be suspicious. You’re not an idiot. Go on. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

John went. 

Sherlock sat slowly down in his preferred leather chair and put his head in his hands. What had he been thinking? He was wholly unfit to help anyone. He couldn’t even help himself. He felt the prickings of withdrawal. John had taken the cocaine into the bedroom, hadn’t had time to flush it. Could he do this? He would have to, he thought grimly. In for a penny. John Watson deserved much better than what life had dealt him so far. There was nobody to see to it except Sherlock. 

He lifted his head from his hands. Hell. Breakfast. Children ate breakfast. He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Petri dishes. Two old takeaway containers from…. two weeks ago? A hand in the process of dissection. He took out the milk. Opened it. Smelled. Hell. Mrs. Hudson should still be up. He had to talk to her about the room anyway. 

~~~~~  


“Sherlock, you can’t _keep_ him. It’s not like a stray cat that you can just feed while it decides if it wants to stay. Surely he has family somewhere.” 

He saw that he was going to have to tell her the entire story. He needed milk and eggs and bread and jam and butter. And he needed her to agree to let John have the room upstairs. So he told her everything he knew and much that he suspected. 

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she put a hand up to her cheek. “The poor child,” she said. 

“He’s…. good, Mrs. Hudson. You wouldn’t be in any danger.” 

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sure you’re right. I’m not worried about that. But what if he does have family? And, what about the…,” she stopped and gestured toward him vaguely, not wanting to call the spade she usually ignored a spade. 

“Drugs? I’ll stay clean. As to family, if he does they’re no bloody use. I think I can…. I think I’ll be better than what he’s had up ‘til now, at least.” 

Martha Hudson looked into his eyes. Suddenly she patted his knee. “You may be right. It’s kind of you….” 

He cut her off. “I’m not _kind_ ,” he spat, as if it were an insult. 

She stood and put an arm around his shoulder. “Well, you were very kind to me.” She felt him shrug. Then, inexplicably, he buried his face in her arm for a moment. Then, so softly that she could barely hear him, “Do you think I can do this? I’ve failed so many times.” 

“Of course you can. I’ll help.” She tightened her arm around him, then stepped briskly away and opened her refrigerator and started pulling out food. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood. “Thank you,” he said. “About the room. I’ll start taking on more paying cases, I’ll work more. I can’t pay you much to start, but I'll make it up later.” Bloody Mycroft controlled his trust fund and kept him perpetually short because of the drug purchases. 

Mrs. Hudson was putting food into a basket. “You don’t have to pay me anything more. That room is just sitting there.” As she turned, Sherlock kissed her on the forehead. 

“You’ll have to clean up that flat, mind,” she said, lest things get too sentimental. “You can’t keep all those chemicals and body parts about with a child in the place. And the _dust_ , Sherlock. You’ll have to let me dust now. And you’ll have to paint the upstairs room. It’s pink.” 

Sherlock laughed, a sound she had very rarely heard. It sounded good. 

~~~~~

“That didn’t take long,” said Sherlock. He spooned scrambled eggs onto John’s plate. “John, this is my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is John.” John stood, put down a piece of toast heavily covered with marmalade, wiped his hand on his jeans, and held it out. “Sir,” he said. Napkins, thought Sherlock. He’d have to procure bloody napkins. And where had John learned such beautiful manners? Certainly not from his father or on the streets. 

“John,” said Mycroft. Then he pinned Sherlock with one of his eloquent stares. This one said I will not discuss this in front of the boy, but what in heaven’s name are you thinking? 

“Tea?” asked Sherlock. 

Mycroft sighed. “Please,” he said, and took a seat at the surprisingly clean and uncluttered kitchen table. 

John tucked into his eggs. “They’re good,” he said. Sherlock shrugged. “Chemistry,” he said. 

“When was the last time you cooked, Sherlock?” 

“Christmas, 1997?” 

“Oh, yes, Grand-mère Lucienne’s Brandade de Morue. You used too much thyme.” 

“I disagree. You add potatoes when you make it, which is a travesty.” 

Mycroft sniffed. “You were always her favorite.” 

“That’s because I carried her painting equipment over half of Provence.” 

“It’s because you were the youngest.” Mycroft took a sip of tea, as if that settled the matter. 

John looked from one to the other. The corner of his mouth lifted, just a hint of a smile in his pale face. 

Sherlock winked at him ever so slightly. “Yes, he’s always like this.” 

“John, when you’ve finished, I need to speak with my brother alone.” Mycroft's tone was calm and also implied that the finishing up should be quite expeditious. The same tone had caused world leaders to rethink their stalling tactics in high-level geopolitical tangles. To Sherlock's amusement and admiration, John was not spooked. He just nodded and calmly finished the last piece of bacon. 

“I’ll take you downstairs to meet Mrs. Hudson. She’s our landlady.” Sherlock saw Mycroft’s teacup hesitate ever so slightly on its trip down to the saucer at the word “our.” 

Sherlock left John and Mrs. Hudson watching some inane program on television and mounted the stairs slowly. He had known Mycroft would come, but he had hoped to have a day to prepare at least. 

Mycroft was standing, waiting for him, braced on his umbrella. “What are you playing at, Sherlock? It’s one thing to bring body parts back from the morgue, but you can’t bring a killer back from a crime scene. You must turn the boy over to the authorities.” 

Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it. “How did you know?” 

“A combination of CCTV footage and my knowledge of you, dear brother. It’s the obvious answer.” 

“Do you think it will be obvious to the police?” 

“Why does it matter?” 

“It was self-defense, Mycroft.” 

“If so, a Youth Court judge will reach that conclusion. He’ll get the help he needs. What is the point in sheltering him and postponing the inevitable?” 

“He needs a home, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft laughed. Then he looked at Sherlock’s still face. “Dear God, you’re serious. I can think of few people on the planet less suited to provide a stable home for a child, a seriously troubled child I might add, than you. And why would you want to do this? You have no tie of any kind to this boy. You are…. How shall I put this? … a needy, high-strung, unreliable, self-absorbed junkie. Why would anyone give you custody of a child?” 

Sherlock clenched his hands, holding back the arguments and denials that crowded his brain. He would need Mycroft’s help. “That is not all I am, Mycroft. That’s not what I always was. I can stay clean.” 

“How many times have you said that? A rhetorical question, by the way. By my count, fourteen times since your first year at Oxford.” 

He wanted to tell Mycroft to get out of the flat. He wanted to find the packet of cocaine. Why he wanted to help John Watson more than either of those things was a mystery to him, but there it was. 

“I know,” he said instead. “Please, Mycroft, help me. Help John.” 

In spite of their history, in spite of their continual sparring, Mycroft loved his brother. In truth, could his brother’s life get much worse than it was now? And could he do much more damage to that strangely polite boy than had already been done? Two damaged souls. Perhaps they needed each other. He found himself hoping. It irritated him to hope. He had been disappointed so many times. He felt something odd flutter in his chest. Hope is a thing with feathers, he thought. Nonsensical sentiment. 

“This is madness,” he said. “What if he has family? What if you get called out on a case? Where will he go to school? Sherlock, are you sure you want to do this?” 

“I’m sure. Help me do this.” 

“What is the problem with his leg?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock knew then that he had won. He carefully restrained himself from smiling. 

“Father. Damn him. Broke it when the boy tried to stop him from having it on with the sister. Refused to take him to the doctor, so it wasn’t set properly.” 

“Sordid in the extreme,” said Mycroft. “I know Sir Edwin Crawford. Her Majesty’s orthopedist. We’ll consult him.” 

“That would be…. kind, Myroft. Thank you.” 

Mycroft dug the tip of the umbrella into the carpet and looked down. “So I take it John is now one of the family?” 

“If he wants to be,” said Sherlock. 

“Just….” Mycroft paused. 

“What?” 

“Just be careful, Sherlock. Hostages to fortune, you know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets out to deceive Lestrade, while Mycroft becomes an uncle.

_Wipe the camera footage outside the scene. SH_

**Already done. MH**

_Thank you. SH_

**John’s manners already having a good effect, I see. MH**

_Bugger off. SH_

Mycroft smiled, put his phone back in his jacket pocket, and got back to the report from the attaché in Waziristan. 

~~~~~  


_Have information from client on homicide. SH_

WHICH ONE? WHY HAVEN’T THEY CONTACTED POLICE?? 

_Will explain. Meet for a beer? SH_

Lestrade looked at the screen of his phone. Sherlock meeting in a pub? Maybe he felt bad about being high at that crime scene last night. As he bloody well should. Lestrade had told him he was done. But if Sherlock had information…. Besides, truth be told, he still sort of liked the stupid git in spite of everything. 

YOU BUYING? 

_Yes. SH_

THE SHIP AND ANCHOR. 7:00. 

~~~~~  


He left John and Mrs. Hudson eating lasagna and watching _Galaxy Quest_ on telly. He glanced back at them as he closed Mrs. H’s door and felt a strange desire to turn around and listen to John’s explanation of how Alan Rickman was really Mr. Spock. They looked so cozy sitting there. And he was strangely reluctant to go lie to Lestrade, who had treated him with nothing but kindness. He and John discussed the pros and cons, but Sherlock persuaded him that nothing good would come of admitting his role in the killing. Even the best-case scenario was court and foster care. Besides, they agreed solemnly that the man had deserved his fate. Lestrade would probably agree given the circumstances, but he was a straight-up copper. He would insist that the system had to do its work. Sherlock thought the system could go hang in this case. 

He got to the pub first, glad to get out of the cold drizzle that had just started slicking the sidewalk. He ordered two pints of Newcastle Brown, Lestrade’s favorite, and found a booth. Lestrade came in shortly thereafter, running a hand over his spikey, greying hair and smiling. 

”So what’s the occasion?” He plopped down facing Sherlock. “I would have come to you, you know.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I owe you an apology, for one thing. I know I said I wouldn’t use if you would give me cases. I let the boredom get the better of me. I’m sorry. I’m clean now, and I will stay clean.” 

Although Greg had heard it before, Sherlock seemed more serious somehow. Less snarky. 

“Yeah, well,” he said, and took a long drink of the beer. “Ta for this,” he said. “Apology accepted. Now what about this client of yours. Which homicide?” 

Here’s where it got dangerous, thought Sherlock. “The girl. Last night.” 

“We just ID’d her this morning. How do you have a client involved in it? And why didn’t you call me immediately?” 

Sherlock sipped the beer. He didn’t like beer, but he needed to establish camaraderie. Ordering a cabernet franc wouldn’t set the right tone. He didn’t directly answer the inspector’s question. 

“The brother. Younger brother, John Watson. He found the bodies and panicked. He’s a street kid, Lestrade. He was afraid of the police.” Well, that was true, at least. “He knew someone in my homeless network. They suggested he talk to me if he didn’t want to go to the police. I decided to let him sleep at my place last night and that we’d contact you today.” 

“Oh, you did, did you? You decided…. I swear to God, Sherlock, if you’re withholding evidence in a homicide investigation...” 

“He doesn’t know anything, Lestrade. He just saw the bodies and ran. He told me that the man was his sister’s pimp. He was frightened. But he’s ready to make a statement now.” At least Sherlock hoped he was ready. They had rehearsed. 

“You know, Sherlock, the CCTV footage around the scene is missing from last night. Camera malfunction. So they say.” 

“Unfortunate,” said Sherlock. Greg stared at him. Sherlock took a long drink of the beer. He really didn’t like beer. “Any leads?” he asked. 

Lestrade shrugged. “We’re working on it. Probably a john or a drug dealer or some other low-life. The only reason I called you in was because the girl was so young. I really want to get the bastard.” 

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “I’m interviewing my homeless network today. I’ll see if any of them were in the area, saw anything.” 

“Thanks.” Greg turned the pint glass around and around on the table. “I have to take the boy’s statement. I’ll call Protective Services. They’ll take him into care, find any family.” 

“Don’t… yet. Wait until you talk to him. Please. He’s been through a lot, and he’s comfortable where he is. Mrs. Hudson is looking after him.” 

Please from Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock Holmes baby-sitting? Something wasn't adding up. He said what was uppermost in his mind. 

"I'd think you’d want to get rid of the kid as soon as possible.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “He’s been through too much already. There’s no reason to move him.” 

Lestrade looked at him. “I’m clean,” Sherlock insisted. “Look, come to the flat. Interview him there. Ask him what he wants.” 

“It’s not up to me. There are procedures.” 

“Sod procedures. You have children, Greg. Just ask him.” 

Greg? Sherlock had never called him Greg. What the bloody hell was going on here? 

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning. OK?” 

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. Lestrade shook his head, drained his pint, and stood up. He had one arm in his coat when he paused. 

“May have a case for you if you’re clean.” 

Sherlock sat up, alert. “Serial suicides,” said Lestrade. 

“There is no such thing as serial suicides,” said Sherlock. 

“I know,” said Lestrade. “I’ll bring the files tomorrow. ‘Night.” 

~~~~~

Sherlock knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door. When she opened it, he said, “Tell John it’s time for bed.” 

”Oh, Mycroft came to get him. They went out for ice cream. I thought you knew.” 

God damn Mycroft, he thought. “When did they leave?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. 

She looked at her watch. “It’s been over an hour. But I’m sure they’ll be back soon. Wasn’t that kind of Mycroft to take him out for a treat?” 

Kind wasn’t the word that came to Sherlock’s mind. Interfering busybody. “Good night, Mrs. Hudson. Thanks for taking care of him.” 

”It was a pleasure. He’s a sweet boy. Helpful. Grateful for everything you do for him. Such a shame about…. About….” She couldn’t say it. 

”I know. We’ll just have to make it up to him, won’t we?” Sherlock turned and headed up the stairs. She stood for a long moment with her door open, watching him go. That child might be the making of him. And he might save that nice boy. If they let them stay together. She wasn’t usually a praying woman, but she might just say a little prayer before she went to bed. 

~~~~~  


They went to Amorino for gelato. Mycroft had no intention of relaxing his standards to suit a child. John chose a combination of Bacio and almond. Mycroft got lemon with crystallized rose seeds. Mycroft sent out Anguria with mint petals, her favorite, to Anthea who waited in the car. 

Mycroft and John sat at a tiny table in a suddenly private room. Private rooms became available to Mycroft whenever he wished. 

“Don’t you like your brother?” John asked, out of the blue. 

“I…,” strange that he should feel compelled to explain this to a child. “I love my brother, but I don’t like him very much sometimes.” 

John nodded. “That’s how me and Harry….,” 

”Harry and I,” corrected Mycroft. 

”That’s how Harry and I were. I loved her. A lot. But I didn’t like some of the things she did.” 

”But you miss her,” said Mycroft. “I’m sorry for your loss, John.” 

John looked at him. Saw the sincerity in those calm eyes. Relaxed. 

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for the gelato. I never had it before. It’s good.” He took a spoonful of the Bacio. Dark chocolate. 

”Do you want to live with my brother?” Mycroft had done his research. He knew now that John had no living relatives. His mother had died of cancer, his father of drink. No aunts or uncles to interfere. Or help. “I can’t honestly say that I recommend it. My brother has a history of drug abuse. He is a brilliant man, but unreliable.” 

”He said he wouldn’t use while I was there,” said John. 

”And you believed him?” 

John nodded. “I like him. He’s interesting. And he didn’t freak out about…” 

”The less said about that the better,” said Mycroft. 

”I’d like to stay there. If that's ok with him. He’s not really like a grown-up, but he's not like another kid either. You know?" 

Mycroft made an ambiguous sound and took a bite of his gelato. He knew only too well what John had seen in Sherlock. Peter Pan had just found his very own Lost Boy. Dear God, he thought, was he to be the only adult in this situation? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson. Or was she Wendy? He shook his head. He was being fanciful. 

"I like the skull. I like it there. But...." The boy's voice trailed off. He looked down and made little stabs into the gelato with his spoon, not eating. 

"What is it?" Mycroft finally asked. 

"Do you think he really wants me to stay?” 

”That's easily answered. I am quite positive that he wants you to stay if that is what _you_ want. Will you let me know if he starts using again?” 

John looked at him. “No, sir. I’m not a snitch.” 

”You’re very loyal, very quickly,” said Mycroft. 

John shrugged. “After mum died, I had to learn who to trust and who not to trust. I trust him.” 

Mycroft found that statement very sad coming from the small, blond boy calmly eating gelato across from him. 

”Very well.” Mycroft took a folder out of his briefcase and slid it over to John. “These papers make Sherlock your guardian if that is what you wish. You will be his ward. It also provides money for your schooling and other needs. It’s your decision, John. If you don’t want this, you can tear up the papers right now, and I will find another….” 

Suddenly, John was standing beside him. “Do you mind if I… hug you, sir?” 

Mycroft blinked. “No John, I don’t mind.” 

John’s arms went around his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered in a shaky voice. “Does this mean I have a family?” 

Mycroft felt that ridiculous flutter in his chest again. He hugged back. “Yes, it does. You may call me Uncle Mycroft.” If Sherlock let this boy down, he would personally …. Well, he wasn’t sure what he would do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade looks the other way, Sherlock has stirrings of responsibility, and John gets to ride in a police car.

Sherlock made tea. If Lestrade hadn’t already been suspicious, which he was, that would have tipped him off. Sherlock never cared fuck all for the comfort of his guests… acquaintances… minions… whatever they all were to him. 

Lestrade took a long sip. Surprisingly, not bad. Why was it surprising, though, when the daft git was good at everything he turned his hand to? Everything except living in the everyday world, staying clean, human relationships. He was shite at human relationships. He was rude, superior, curt, and dismissive. He either (A) was clueless about how these things affected other people or (B) didn’t give a rat’s ass. So now he was making tea, hovering around like a mother hen, and somehow (how?) connected to this small scrap of humanity named John Watson. Something, thought Greg, was rotten in Baker Street. 

The boy sat at the kitchen table across from the Inspector, his eyes down, pale. 

“I’m sorry about your sister.” 

The child nodded. 

The DI gently led the boy through the sequence of events. John’s voice trembled when he talked about finding his sister, dead. 

“We were….” The dark blue eyes looked steadily into his, and they were full of pain. Greg hated, hated crimes that involved children. “She was all I had left. I knew what she was doing wasn’t right, but it was better than… before.” 

If Greg could have adopted every damaged child that he had come across in his career, he would have somehow tried to do it. If he could have killed every callous adult who hurt them…. Well, best not to think about that. 

“So they were both dead when you got there. Your sister and her pimp.” He didn’t phrase these as questions. 

John’s white face went whiter still. Sherlock turned from fiddling with spoons by the sink and came over to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Yes, sir,” said John. Lestrade looked from the small, pale face up to Sherlock’s. Equally pale. 

“He was terrified, Lestrade. He’s identified his sister and the dead man. I’ve taken down all the details he could give me about this Rufus person and Harriet’s involvement with him, and I’ve included them in my statement. John, why don’t you go down and see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits? The Detective Inspector might enjoy one with his tea.” 

All three of them sat in silence, unmoving, for several moments. Lestrade saw the boy’s hands twist together, knuckles white. Sherlock’s hand was still on John’s shoulder, unnaturally still. Sherlock’s and Lestrade’s gazes locked. He wasn’t a fanciful man, but he had heard the phrase ‘speaking gaze.’ Sherlock’s gaze spoke to him. It said please. It said trust me. Please. 

“Yeah, a biscuit would be good. Ask Mrs. H if she has any of the ginger ones, John.” He smiled at the boy. Sherlock’s hand moved, releasing his grip on the boy’s shoulder, patting him on the arm, like a good horseman settles a skittish colt. John slid out of the chair, headed for the door, and didn’t look back. 

“He’s good, Lestrade. He’s been through hell. He doesn’t need any more.” 

Greg sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. 

“You’re sure?” He must be mad, he thought. “Sherlock, whatever he’s been through, he needs help. That’s plain.” 

“I will get him whatever help he needs,” Sherlock said evenly. 

“You? Sherlock, you can’t even help yourself.” 

Sherlock winced at the exasperation and disbelief in Lestrade’s voice, but he knew he deserved it. 

“Me,” he said. “And Mycroft will help. And Mrs. Hudson. He’s my ward, Lestrade. Mycroft already arranged it.” 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. He’s …” A killer. Lestrade knew it. Sherlock knew it. If either of them said it, game over. Sometimes, as Lestrade knew only too well, killing is the lesser of evils. 

“Please, Lestrade.” Sherlock dropped down into the chair John had vacated. “He needs me. I know that sounds mad. I know how many times I’ve let you and my brother down. But he’s better off with me than the alternative. Please believe that.” 

Sod it, thought Lestrade. As crazy as it sounded, Sherlock might be right. He thought about all the kids lost in the system, just files in the bureaucracy, bouncing from detention to court to foster care. 

The door opened, and John came back into the room. “Mrs. Hudson isn’t home,” he said. “I knocked and knocked.” 

Just then Lestrade’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text. “Those serial suicides…,” he said. 

Sherlock sat up, alert. “A fourth, yes? What’s different about this one?” 

“This one left a note.” 

Sherlock stood up, his face alight, and clapped his hands together. “Serial killer then. Finally, a decent case. It’s Christmas!” 

“Will you come?” 

“Of course I’ll bloody....” His voice trailed off. He looked at John. No Mrs. Hudson. “Um, better not.” Lestrade saw his jaw clench. “Can’t leave John.” 

Well, well, thought Lestrade. Maybe this crazy scheme wasn’t so crazy after all. Sherlock Holmes had just demonstrated a modicum of common sense. He felt so charitable toward the madman suddenly that he said, “What if John came too? He could stay in the police car.” 

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock hesitated. Maybe a murder scene wasn’t the best place to take a child, especially this particular boy. He’s had enough disruption and violence. 

“You’re a detective. You should go,” said John. Sherlock had told him about his status as a consulting detective. The only one in the world. John had been wide-eyed and impressed. “Can I really ride in the police car? I promise I won’t be any trouble. Please?” 

“Is it really alright, Lestrade?” Sherlock was, obviously, asking about more than taking John to a crime scene. 

“Yeah, I think it is,” said Lestrade. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock mouthed over John’s head. Then he swirled into motion, grabbed his coat, and put a hand to John’s back, hurrying him out of the room. “The game, John, is on!” 

~~~~~  


“Sally,” said Lestrade. “This is John. Could you find a sergeant to stay with him in the car while we’re inside?” 

Sally Donovan looked from Sherlock to Lestrade standing outside the car to the small blond boy still in the back seat. 

“Hello, freak,” she said to Sherlock. “Who’s the kid?” 

“My ward,” said Sherlock. 

Sally’s head snapped back as if he had struck her. “Your ward? _Your_ ward? Who the hell would make you guardian of a child? Did he just follow you home?” 

“Sally,” said Lestrade, warning in his tone. 

“Greg, that child shouldn’t be at a crime scene.” 

“John,” said Sherlock, trying not to lose his temper. “His name is John Watson. John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan.” 

“Hi,” said John, sliding over the car seat to get closer to where they were all standing. “I promise I won’t be any trouble.” 

Anderson strolled up at that point. Sally turned to him, “The freak’s got himself a kid.” 

Sherlock saw John intently following every word. He did not succeed in keeping his temper in check. 

“Is your wife away for long, Anderson?” 

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.” 

“Your deodorant told me that,” Sherlock hissed. 

“My deodorant?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Anderson was such an idiot and a sorry excuse for a person to boot. 

“It’s for men.” Sherlock was just getting going. His eyes flicked from Anderson to Sally Donovan’s knees. 

“Well, of course it’s for men,” said Anderson, implying indignantly that his masculinity was being called into question. “I’m wearing it.” 

“So is Sally. She stayed over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her…” 

Lestrade coughed pointedly. Sherlock looked at him, then at John who was following every word. 

Oh. “Sorry,” said Sherlock after a long moment. “Sorry, um… Sally…,” he almost choked on her name. “Could you get someone to look out for John while I’m in there?” 

She looked from Sherlock to the boy. John smiled at her. “Yeah, well, I might as well do it myself. Got some paperwork to finish anyway.” She shot him an exasperated look, but she smiled at John as she ducked into the car.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John becomes Sherlock's defender and meets Angelo. Sherlock tries hard but is still Sherlock. Everyone else is an idiot.

“Why did you call him a freak? That wasn’t very nice.” 

The woman sitting beside him in the back seat of the police cruiser looked up from the form she was filling out. 

She shrugged. “I think it’s weird that he gets off on crime scenes. He’s not getting paid for this, you know. We’re perfectly capable of handling crime scenes on our own, thank you very much. And he’s rude to everyone. He may be brilliant, but he’s a…” She stopped. It was obvious to John that the next word was going to be a bad one, but that she had remembered that he was just a kid. She sighed. 

“Sorry. I know he’s your guardian. Are you related to him?” 

John wasn’t sure what story Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft wanted to tell or had already told people, so he shrugged and turned to look out the window. He wished he was really related to them. They might be different. They might be rude. But they had both been very kind to him, and they were about as far from his screwed up family as it was possible to be. That made them all right in his book. Good even. 

“He’s not a freak,” John said. “Don’t call him that. He’s really smart. And I don’t think Mr. Lestrade would ask him for help if he didn’t need it.” 

The woman shrugged again and went back to scribbling. John went back to looking out the window. After several minutes, Sherlock burst out of the door and headed off down the street at a rapid pace, coat flapping behind him. Where was he going? 

John must have made a sound, because Sally looked up and followed his gaze toward Sherlock’s rapidly disappearing form. “Bloody hell,” she said. 

She opened the car door, lunged out, and yelled, “Forget something?” He kept on going. She went to the front of the car and leaned on the horn. He turned then. John’s heart sank. Sherlock had forgotten him. He started walking back toward the car. 

Sally’s face was stormy as she leaned in to motion John out of the car. “Be careful,” she said in a low voice. “Just… don’t depend on him. He’ll always let you down.” 

“He won’t,” John said, fiercely. But he wondered. Everyone in his life had let him down so far. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock ignored Sally and bent down to look at John who was still hunched up defensively inside the back seat. “I get preoccupied when I’m on a case.” 

“It’s ok,” said John. He was used to looking after himself, after all. He could do it again if it had to. 

“No, it’s not ok. This…,” Sherlock gestured between himself and John. “It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to. Let’s go home.” 

Home. John nodded. 

~~~~~  


They had only been back for an hour when Sherlock suddenly said, “Pink!” and “I’ve got to go out.” John tried to talk Sherlock into letting him come, but he just said, “Could be dangerous” and dropped him down with Mrs. Hudson again. John was torn. He really wanted to go, and he didn’t understand why he couldn’t. He had lived on the streets. He was used to danger. On the other hand, it was almost tea-time, and Mrs. Hudson had really good biscuits. 

When he heard Sherlock come in later, Mrs. Hudson made him wait to go up while she made tea for Sherlock and put together a plate of biscuits for him. 

"See if you can get him to eat them, John," she said as she made up the tray. "Honestly, he doesn't eat enough to keep a cat alive." 

John shifted impatiently from foot to foot as she bustled around the kitchen. Then he made his way slowly up the stairs. He hated his limp, and stairs were particularly difficult, especially when he was carrying something and had to compensate for his damaged leg. Having to compensate for the damage always made him remember his father. Uncle Mycroft had said he was taking him to a specialist soon who could probably fix it.

“Mrs. Hudson sent you tea and buiscuits. They're cinnamon,” he said as he came into the flat. Sherlock was sitting on the floor with a small pink suitcase open in front of him. 

“Not hungry. Go back downstairs and borrow Mrs. Hudson’s cell phone. Don’t want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It’s on the website.” 

John went into the kitchen to put the tray down. 

“Do you have it? Are you back?” Sherlock’s voice was impatient. 

“I haven’t even left yet.” 

“Well, hurry.” 

John hurried as much as his leg would let him. Damn his leg. He knew he wasn’t supposed to swear, but Harry swore all the time. And, anyway, damn his leg. 

~~~~~  


Sherlock snatched the phone from John and sent the text. _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.”_

“Why did you need Mrs. Hudson’s phone,” John asked. 

Sherlock looked up. “I just texted a serial killer. The victim’s phone wasn’t in her case, wasn’t on the body, so the balance of probability indicates that her killer has her phone.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s phone started to ring. “And there he is,” he said, pleased. “He being the statistical probability. A few hours from his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. He’s panicking. Now he’ll make a mistake.” 

“You texted a killed from Mrs. Hudson’s phone?” John sounded concerned. Sherlock looked up. Oh, maybe a bit not good. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch him long before he could trace her number.” He rubbed his hands together. This was getting interesting. He would go to Angelo’s, have a glass of wine, and wait for the killer to show up across the street. 

“I’m off,” he said. “Pop back down to Mrs. Hudson’s, return her phone, and stay with her until I come back.” 

“Please let me come with you.” 

Sherlock hesitated. That would be ridiculous. For one thing, John probably couldn’t keep up. He hoped Mycroft was doing something about the orthopedist. 

“Too dangerous. I may end up chasing a serial killer.” 

The boy looked crestfallen. “It’s because of my leg, isn’t it? I understand. It’s ok.” 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. John was looking at the floor, his shoulders slumped. Well, he could always leave him with Angelo for a bit if the killer showed up. Angelo wouldn’t mind. 

“Oh, very well. Get your coat.” John looked up, his face lit like it was Christmas. Sherlock found himself smiling in return. He would have felt the same at that age, getting to go on an adventure. In for a penny, Sherlock thought. If John was going to live with him, he couldn’t shield him totally from his work. John wasn’t an ordinary child, anyway. For better or worse, he was old beyond his years. He had seen and done things no child should experience. 

“Hurry,” he said. John did. 

~~~~  


John was glad to sit down at the window table. Sherlock walked fast, even though John could tell he had tried to slow down without making it obvious he was trying to do it because of John’s leg. His guardian walked fast, talked fast, did almost everything fast. 

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street,” he was saying, nodding to a building on the opposite street corner. “Keep your eyes on it, John. Let’s see if we’ve attracted our killer.” 

A thrill of excitement went through him. He sat up straight and nodded, but then was distracted by the burly, bearded man coming toward their table. 

“Sherlock,” he said, “who’s this then?” 

Sherlock stood up and shook hands with the man. “Angelo, this is my ward, John Watson.” 

“Your ward? Well, well. Pleased to meet you, John. This man got me off a murder charge.” 

“Three years ago I successfully proved to Inspector Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking,” Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on the house across the street. 

“But for this man, John, I’d have gone to prison.” 

“You did go to prison,” said Sherlock. 

The man just laughed. “What would you like, John? Spaghetti, lasagna? Anything you want, on the house.” 

“I like lasagna,” said John. “Thank you, sir.” 

“My pleasure,” Angelo said. “And I’ll bring something for Sherlock. See if you can get him to eat?” 

John nodded. Angelo and Mrs. Hudson were right. Sherlock didn’t eat enough. Sherlock rolled his eyes, still not looking away from the street. Angelo winked at John, and John realized that he had become part of the group of people dedicated to trying to take care of his eccentric guardian. He felt suddenly grown up. They sat in silence for several minutes, looking out at the street. 

”Look at that cab across the street, John. It’s been stopped for two minutes. Nobody getting in. Nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Why…” 

Suddenly he grabbed his coat and scarf. “Stay here. You’re not to follow. Understood?” 

His mouth full of lasagna, John just nodded. Sherlock then ran out the door. He almost choked on the bite of lasagna when Sherlock crossed the road without looking and was almost run over by a car. He rolled over the bonnet and landed on his feet. The taxi pulled away from the curb and Sherlock ran after it, off down the road. 

”He does that,” said Angelo, looking sadly at the untouched plate of veal marsala at Sherlock’s abandoned place. “He knew you’d be safe her with me, though. Enjoying your lasagna?” 

”It’s great.” John wasn’t just being polite. It was wonderful. And he liked Angelo. He wondered if Sherlock would forget about him again. 

~~~~~  


Sherlock didn't forget about him this time. He came back twenty minutes later, still winded from running. He flopped into his seat and looked, bemused, at the takeaway container in front of him. 

“Angelo boxed it up for you. What happened?” 

“I must have been wrong about the cab. When I caught it, it contained only a puzzled tourist from California. Ready to go back to Baker Street? I’ll have Angelo keep an eye out on the house in case anyone shows up.” 

So they went back home. John felt happy every time he thought about the flat. It already seemed like home to him. As soon as they opened the downstairs door, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. She looked worried. 

“Sherlock, what have you done?” 

“Mrs. Hudson? What’s wrong?” 

“Upstairs,” was all she said. 

Sherlock bounded up the stairs. John followed more slowly. His leg was really hurting. When he got inside, he saw that there were people in the flat. 

“It’s a drugs bust.” That was Inspector Lestrade. 

That made John mad. “He’s not using drugs. He promised me he wouldn’t.” 

Lestrade looked at John and shrugged. 

“I’m clean… Oh, for God’s sake. You brought Sally and Anderson on a drugs bust?” 

“They volunteered,” said Lestrade. “They’re not strictly speaking part of vice, but they’re very keen. The fact the we happened to find a certain suitcase in your flat that is evidence in a murder investigation and that you are withholding said evidence from the police is just a bonus.” 

The lady, Sally from the crime scene that night, came in from the kitchen. She was holding up a jar, “Are these eyes? _Human_ eyes?” She glared at Sherlock. Then she saw John and lowered the jar. “Hi, John.” 

“Hi,” John said. 

“I’m clean,” Sherlock said again. “I promised John.” He looked at John and smiled. John suddenly wanted to throw his arms around the man and not let go. But there were people and they were all talking at once. He thought about his father. He wished Sherlock was his father, not just his guardian. 

Then John realized he had missed some of the conversation. He didn't want to miss any clues, so he focused. 

“According to _someone_ , the murderer has the case. And we found the case. Here in the hands of our favorite psychopath.” That was that guy Anderson. John narrowed his eyes and went up to him. 

“Don’t call him that,” John said fiercely. “He’s not a psycho... psycho..." 

"Psychopath, John," said Sherlock, quietly. 

"He's not a psychopath," said John, still glaring at Anderson. "And he’s way smarter than you. Than all of you. _He_ found the case. None of _you_ did.” 

Inspector Lestrade laughed. "Right you are, John," he said. 

Then Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “So Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's daughter. You need to bring her in. You need to question her. I need to question her.” 

“She’s dead,” said Lestrade. “Stillborn.” 

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. “Jennifer Wilson was clever. Really clever. She wrote her daughter’s name. She scratched Rachel into the floor with her fingernails. It would have hurt. She’s trying to tell us something.” 

Just then Mrs. Hudson came in. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here.” 

“I didn’t order a taxi. Go away… Oh!” Suddenly Sherlock’s face lit up, and he laughed. 

“She’s cleverer than all of you lot and she’s dead. Don’t you see? She didn’t _lose_ her phone. She _planted_ it on her killer. It will lead us right to him.” 

Sherlock bounded over to the computer on his desk. “John, read me the address on the luggage tag.” 

John went over to the pink case. He read out email address for the smartphone, and Sherlock typed it in. 

“And all together now,” he said, not looking up from the computer, “the password is…” 

“Rachel!” John and Lestrade said it at the same time. Lestrade smiled and walked over to ruffle John’s hair. “Good lad,” he said. 

“Come on, come on…. Hurry up.” Sherlock was looking at the computer screen and jiggling in his chair with impatience. 

“Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson was back. “This taxi driver…,” 

“Hush,” said Sherlock looking intently at the computer screen. “It’s here. It’s in Baker Street.” 

“Her phone? How can that be?” asked Lestrade. “Where? It wasn’t in her case? Anderson, Donovan, we’re looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonging to the victim.” They all started looking. 

John heard Sherlock’s phone ping. Saw him look at the phone, then look toward the open door to the flat. John’s eyes followed his. Mrs. Hudson stood there. Behind her was a grey-haired man with a cap pulled down low over his eyes. He had a taxi-driver’s badge hanging down over the front of his rumpled cardigan sweater. 

Sherlock headed toward the door. 

“Where are you going? Can I come?” John asked. 

Sherlock didn’t look around. “Not this time. Mrs. Hudson, could you look after John?” 

“Of course,” she said. “But where are you going?” 

Sherlock followed the driver down the stairs without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries but is still Sherlock, John saves his hide, Mycroft is a BAMF, and John's new family promises to expand.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade came into the room and looked around, puzzled. 

John turned from the door. “He left. Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “He must have found a clue or put something together. I’ve known him for five years, and I don’t know why he does half of what he does. But it usually turns out he has a good reason.” Then he called out to the others, “Ok everybody. Done here.” 

Mrs. Hudson looked at the boy’s bereft face. “You come downstairs with me. I’ll make you hot chocolate.” 

John shook his head. Something didn’t feel right. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “He said he didn’t call a cab, but then he went with that man. I didn’t like the way he looked. Why wouldn’t he let me come?” 

“I told you,” said Sally as she came in from the kitchen. “He’s a lunatic, and he will always let you down. I know that’s not what you want to hear, John, but it’s the truth.” She shook her head, almost sadly. Then she and Anderson were gone. 

“Sherlock can take care of himself, John,” said Lestrade. “Don’t worry.” He was almost out the door when he turned back. 

“Sally is wrong about Sherlock. He’s a great man. If we’re very lucky, someday he may even be a good one.” 

“He’s good now,” John said hotly, his chin going up defiantly. “He… he saved me. He gave me a home. He didn’t have to do any of what he’s done for me. He _is_ a good man.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “I hope you’re right, John. I hope you’re right.” Then he, too, was gone. 

“John…,” Mrs. Hudson started. 

“I’m staying here,” John interrupted. “You don’t have to baby-sit me.” 

“I know that. But maybe it would be alright if I went downstairs and made the hot chocolate? I'll bring it up and just stay a little while. I’m sure Sherlock will be back soon.” 

John nodded. As soon as she closed the door, he took the mobile that Mycroft had given him from the pocket of his jeans and pressed the number one on the speed dial. Sherlock had been indignant that Mycroft was number one, while he was number two, but John explained that Mycroft had preprogrammed the phone. Since Mycroft was paying for it, Sherlock had waived his objections. 

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft answered the phone within three seconds. 

“I’m not sure,” said John. “Sherlock went with a cab driver. But he hadn’t called a cab. He looked strange when he left. Something’s not right.” 

Mycroft said, “Wait just a moment, John.” Then, “I’m on my way to you. Tell me everything. As quickly as you can. Leave nothing out. ” 

So John told him everything he could remember. He told him about the serial killer, about the night at Angelo’s, about the pink case, about the drugs bust. As he was telling Mycroft about tracing the GPS signal, Mycroft told him to wait. He was downstairs. He heard Mycroft running up the steps. Just as he opened the door, a chime sounded on Sherlock’s computer. Mycroft walked up to it, looked at the screen, and saw that the GPS has zeroed in on the victim's phone. The signal indicated that it was still on the move, far away from Baker Street. 

“Oh my god. Sherlock….” Mycroft grabbed up Sherlock's computer and took out his phone from inside his suit coat, punching buttons as he moved. “DI Lestrade? This is Mycroft Holmes.” His voice faded as he ran down the stairs. John ran after him. As Mycroft approached the black car, he was shouting at his driver. John was right behind him. Mycroft turned. 

“John, go back upstairs. I don’t have time for this. Get back upstairs.” 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“No. It’s too dangerous.” 

John set his jaw. 

“He’s my… he’s my dad.” Sherlock had never said it, but he was. 

Mycroft suddenly reached for him and flung him into the car, got in after him, and yelled, “Go. Now.” The car’s tires squealed as it accelerated. 

John landed in a tangle in Anthea’s lap. 

“Well, hello again,” she said, not looking up from her phone. The car swerved and bucked through traffic. 

“Holy Mother,” said Mycroft, looking down at the GPS track on Sherlock's small laptop. “He’s taking him to the Training College. A nice, quiet place for a murder. Faster, driver.” Then he said, “We may be too late. He’s obviously taking him there to kill him.” 

“Sir,” said Anthea pointedly, looking at John. 

“No. You can’t let anything happen to him,” John said. “Please.” 

Mycroft punched the one button on his phone. One was his speed-dial for Sherlock, of course. One for idiot, he thought viciously. No answer. Of course there was no bloody answer. 

“If he’s going to live with Sherlock, he might as well get used to my brother’s chosen lifestyle," he said to Anthea bitterly. 

Then to John, “I will do my best, John. I promise you.” Then, to the driver, “Here, here, stop.” 

The car skidded to a halt on the cobbled drive between two buildings. “Stay with John,” he directed Anthea. He lept from the car and ran. 

John scrambled out after him. He ran as fast as he could, trying to ignore the drag and pain of his bad leg. Anthea was fast, but not quite fast enough. John felt her hand on his shirt, but he twisted and kept going. He heard her swearing behind him. She stopped to remove her high heels, but John got into the building ahead of her. He ran behind Mycroft up a set of stairs, down a corridor. Mycroft suddenly stopped in front of a window. He smacked a fist into the wall. “Wrong building. Bloody hell.” 

John came up beside him. Mycroft looked down. “Oh, for the love of God…,” he said. They both looked through the window to the window in the opposite building, across a courtyard. Anthea came up behind them. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled. But it was too far. Sherlock and the cabbie each lifted a hand in unison, holding something. What were they holding? 

“What’s he doing?” asked John. 

“Trying to prove he’s clever. He’ll do anything at all to stop being bored….,” Sherlock’s hand came down, toward his mouth. “Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled again. 

Suddenly Mycroft put his hand under his impeccable suit coat. When it came out, it held a gun. 

“Stand very still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Do nothing to distract me.” His voice was level. He lifted the gun. There was a terrific noise, the sound of glass shattering, then Mycroft dragged him away from the window. “Run,” he said. “This way.” 

At the back of the building, he turned to Anthea. “Go. Move the car. Quickly. We’ll find you.” She sprinted away, high heels still clutched in one hand. 

~~~~~  


Mycroft stood outside the car with his hand on John’s shoulder. They were both relieved when they saw Sherlock come out of the building. The police officers made him sit in the ambulance, and they put a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock was, obviously, arguing with them. 

“Is he ok?” 

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “They just think he’s in shock. Little do they know my brother.” 

Sherlock stood as Lestrade came up to him. He was talking quickly and making gestures. 

“Show off,” muttered Mycroft. 

Suddenly Sherlock looked over and saw them standing behind the police tape. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Mycroft. He shook his head and said something else to Lestrade. Then he came over to them. 

“So, another case cracked, little brother,” said Mycroft. “How very public spirited of you, although that’s never your motivation. The Detective Inspector explained everything to us earlier. Two pills. Terrible business.” 

“What is John doing here? What in God’s name possessed you, Mycroft?” 

“I had little choice. I’ll let him explain that to you later.” 

“Good shot, by the way,” Sherlock said. 

“Indeed,” said Mycroft, “it must have been, through that window.” 

“It was an _amazing_ shot…,” said John, his voice rising with enthusiasm. 

Mycroft’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Hush, John. This is neither the time nor the place.” 

“I’m surprised you’ve kept it up, Mycroft.” Sherlock had no better sense of time or place than did John. “I thought you had underlings to do that sort of thing now. Better get rid of the powder burns. Wouldn’t want a court case.” 

“I appreciate your brotherly concern. That was… and will stay… strictly a family matter. Did it occur to you on this particular occasion that risking your life to prove your cleverness was both pointless and idiotic? That you now have responsibilities? You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?” 

“I was just biding my time. I knew you’d turn up. John, are you hungry?” 

John nodded. He wasn't really, since he had actually eaten at Angelo's. If Sherlock thought John was hungry, though, he might actually eat with him this time. 

“There’s a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street,” said Sherlock. “Stays open late. Coming, Mycroft?” 

“What, I’m invited?” 

“Please come, Uncle Mycroft.” John turned to Sherlock, “He saved your life, didn’t he, dad?” 

Sherlock stood quite still for a long moment. Something seemed wrong with his face, thought John. Maybe he shouldn’t have called him dad. Maybe he had misunderstood. 

“I’m sorry,” John said, miserably. “It just slipped out. I know you said to call you Sherlock…” 

“John, I would like it very much if you called me dad.” He closed the space between them. “I’m… I may not always be good at it. But if you’ll be patient, I’ll try very hard to be your dad.” 

John threw his arms around Sherlock and buried himself in the folds of the coat he always wore. He felt a hand come up and tentatively touch his hair, then both arms came around him. 

He heard Uncle Mycroft clear his throat. “So, Chinese, then. I hope this place has decent zhengjiao. I’m starving.” 

“You’re always starving,” said Sherlock. 

“Really, Sherlock. I just saved your life, so a few minutes without insults would be much appreciated.” 

“You didn’t save my life. You always were trigger-happy. In ’96 when we were undercover in Kiev….” He stopped as they passed by a cluster of police officers. 

Mycroft took John’s hand as they started to cross the street. “He’s always been so resentful, John. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.” 

Actually, John _could_ imagine the Christmas dinners. The thought made him happy. He felt like skipping. He tried, but he almost fell. All the running around had made his leg worse than ever. He felt Uncle Mycroft’s hand tighten on his. 

“By the way, John, your appointment with the orthopedist is Monday.” John smiled up at him. 

Sherlock was slightly behind them, and he seemed a bit preoccupied. “Mycroft,” he said, “have you ever heard of a criminal named Moriarty?” 

John felt Uncle Mycroft's hand twitch slightly in his. 

“Speaking of Christmas dinners,” Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's question. “Don’t you think it’s time you introduced your son to Mummy and Daddy?" 

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “I suppose so. They’ll smother you with love, John. My mother will make all your favorite dishes. My father will want to play footie in the garden. He’ll take you to the pub and introduce you to all his friends. They never expected to have a grandson. It will be ghastly.” 

John thought it sounded wonderful. 

Sherlock thought that fatherhood was going to be both fascinating and demanding. 

Mycroft thought he had deflected Sherlock admirably. At least for the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude and apologies to Moftiss, I've woven some of the dialogue from the original ASiP into my AU for fun and continuity. Such dialogue and their characters don't belong to me -- just playing in a version of your version of.... well, you get the drift.


End file.
